


Antiseptic Moonshine

by KipRussel



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, a lil oneshot about dubious first aid and a blossoming friendship, excessive use of em dashes, i miss writing yall, ish? more like. hurt. and joking to cope but also friendship, its not necessarily graphic violence its just the aftermath, ive been playing mac's questline for the first time and his affinity dialogues are KILLING me, just like to be safe with the tags u kno, more on my poor naming choices at eleven, no need to keep debts even when youve found a friendship and not a business partner, not a lot of substance but i had to write it, this is rlly small i just had to get it out of my system, to add to the confusion my sole is named Kip just like me but is not a self insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23017240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KipRussel/pseuds/KipRussel
Summary: Now, it was silent. No more gunfire-- no footsteps, no shouts, no whispers-- just the ringing in his ears. Kip furrowed his brow.No sound of Maccready either.Which was normal. Right? His sniper friend had a tendency to be light on his feet. A requirement for his style of life, really. Kip strained to listen again. The metal skyscrapers towering over him creaked in the wind.Nothing.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Antiseptic Moonshine

Kip had a wonderful view of the Commonwealth’s blue sky from his current position. He lay flat on his back, ignoring the sharp pieces of rubble and glass threatening to poke through his armor, straining to listen through the deafening silence. His revolver still burned hot, resting now against his sleeve. He had popped up over the sandbag wall, sending a round into the raider across the street before throwing himself down again. Now, it was silent. No more gunfire— no footsteps, no shouts, no whispers— just the ringing in his ears. Kip furrowed his brow.

No sound of Maccready either.

Which was normal. Right? His sniper friend had a tendency to be light on his feet. A requirement for his style of life, really. Kip strained to listen again. The metal skyscrapers towering over him creaked in the wind. 

Nothing.

He popped up to his feet, gun ready, sweeping the area, then holstered it at his side. The small gang of ambushing raiders lay dead on the pavement. 

“Mac?” Kip called, half whispering. Nobody answered him. The intersection sat still and quiet. He hazarded raising his voice and tried again. “RJ?”

A choked and stuttered “ _Over here,_ ” came weakly from a nearby alley. Kip paled at the sound, rounding the corner in three quick strides to find Maccready lying on the ground, clutching his leg. A spiked tire iron jutted out from his shin, a grotesque metal weapon that matched the rusted armor of a raider. Much like the bloodied and dead one lying face down next to Mac.

Kip swore, glancing to Maccready before slinging his bag off his shoulder, rooting through it.

“He— he got me by surprise,” Mac spoke through gritted teeth, voice straining. “B— burst out of the door at the end of the alley. Swung the thing like a base—” he stopped, trying to breathe. “A baseball bat.” 

Kip fished out a metal box and dumped its contents in front of him. Bandages and tape bounced out and settled by the men’s feet. 

“No— no stims?” Mac questioned, brow furrowed.

“Not even Med-X. Did you have any?” Kip asked, already moving to check Maccready’s duster pockets. He didn’t answer.

Mac’s bag was void of medical supplies. So were the raiders, Kip found, shoving their bodies over with his foot, scanning for pockets and bags for anything. Maccready tried to think about other things, like the red of the brick that rose up around him, or Trinity Tower swaying slightly overhead, or how much it hurt to dig his fingernails into his palms when he clenched his fists. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. For letting it happen. For the raider carrying a spiked tire iron. What as— what _idiot_ used a sharpened tire iron to fight a sniper?

He squinted as Kip’s silhouette appeared at the end of the alleyway, praying for solace in the form of stimpacks. Kip’s face was twisted into an amused yet sympathetic grimace. He had a bottle of vodka in his hand. Maccready laughed in spite of himself, biting his lip.

“Great. That’s great.”

* * *

Their makeshift medicine started with lifting Maccready’s straightened leg, padding out underneath his wound with spare rags they had scrounged. Kip readied the bandages and tape that he had, trying his best to keep them clean. Maccready already clutched the neck of the bottle, eyes shut tight, mind elsewhere.

“For the record. This is _not_ what I meant by ‘fun drinking game’.” He tried to laugh, but the sound died in his throat. Kip shot him a bemused glance. Mac raised the bottle and took a gulp, then coughed. “What kind of moonshine are those guys drinking?” Kip reached for the bottle, checking Mac’s leg again.

“The kind that’s going to get you back to Goodneighbor in one piece,” he replied. Mac responded with a wavering and unsure _hm_.

“I’ve done some sketchy stuff in my day but—” he stopped suddenly, gathering the end of his duster in his fists, grinding his teeth as Kip poured some of the vodka on the wound. “ _This,_ ” he winced, “is a first.” Kip passed the bottle back to him, clasping a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“What about that time at Bunker Hill?” he asked. Mac shot him a confused glance as he took another swig.

“What?”

“When we went drinking, and you nearly started a fight with those caravan guards over fair prices for Grognak issues.”

Mac shook his head, managing a smirk. “That’s _not_ the same. And they deserved a fight.”

“Sure. That would’ve gone great for us,” Kip snarked.

“They wanted _2,000 caps_. What kind of idiots do they want to sell to? I could get an issue like that for 3—”

Kip grabbed the iron firmly and in one fluid motion, yanked it cleanly out. He grimaced at Mac’s scream. The makeshift weapon clattered to the ground.

“Sorry,” Kip winced.

“You— _mgmhfn_ ,” Mac paused, holding his words and breath in tight. They escaped in a weak whimper. Tears were streaming down his face. “This would be _so_ much easier if I could swear.”

Kip was set at wrapping up the wound. “I won’t tell.”

A blue streak of curses drifted out of the alleyway.

Kip gave his shoulder a gentle shake. “Sorry,” he repeated, moving to Maccready’s side. “Can you stand?”

“Yeah,” he answered quietly. “Can’t put weight on it but. I’ll make it to Goodneighbor.”

Kip slid his arm behind Maccready’s back, gently easing him into a standing position, letting the merc lean his weight against him.

“Ready?”

Mac nodded.

“Here we go.” They took a tentative step forward— then another, stuttering, and another, building slow momentum, moving forward. Mac watched the ground carefully, making an effort to step over the rubble and bodies.

“Thanks,” he said. “For helping me out.”

“It’s no problem,” Kip answered, picking their way forward.

“No, really,” Mac continued. “For this. And everything else. Always having my back.”

“I didn’t know you were a sentimental drunk,” Kip joked.

Mac snorted. “I _wish_ I was drunk.”

“You’re welcome. Friend’s got to stick together, right? What are friends for if not… pulling sharpened tools out of each other’s shins.”

“Yeah,” Mac answered, looking up to see the neon of Goodneighbor glinting in the distance. “What friends are for.”


End file.
